


The Flower Girl

by Kendrene



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Clexa Week 2018, Eventual Smut, F/F, Flower theft, Flowers, Fluff and Angst, meet ugly, modern day AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-23 23:26:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13798563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrene/pseuds/Kendrene
Summary: When Lexa notices that flowers are vanishing from her garden, she decides to investigate. A blonde thief, an ambush, and a walk later she finds herself with more than she bargained for. And falling for someone new.ORThe one where Clarke steals from Lexa's garden and thinks she can get away with it.- For Clexa Week 2018 Sunday 25th February's theme: Meet Ugly





	1. Petty Theft

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my contribution to this year's Clexa Week! Well, the start of it! I hope you will enjoy.
> 
> \- Dren

Lexa can scarcely believe she’s wasting one of the few days off she has left for  _ this _ .

And yet here she is, perched on the couch armrest like an hawk, eyes trained on her front yard as she nurses her third cup of tea. Which is probably not a good idea, considering she’ll have to leave her observation post for the bathroom if she keeps going at this rate.

And what if the flower thief shows up then. 

It’s taken her about a month to notice that, from time to time, flowers go missing from the well-tended patches she fawns over on weekends - sometimes it’s a handful of blue sage, or one of the other perennials she grows closer to the street, but once she almost caught the thief in the act, and taking some of the roses from the bush under the living room window of all places!

At least Lexa thinks she almost caught her. 

To be honest she isn’t even sure the thief is a  _ she _ .

She sighs and reaches out to adjust the curtain, so that she can keep an eye on the garden undisturbed while remaining hidden should anyone try to glance inside the house from the street. 

As she shifts around, trying to find a more comfortable position and failing, she thinks back to the evening of her “encounter” with the supposed thief. 

It had been almost two weeks ago, late enough that - even though days were growing longer as spring settled in - light was fading fast, leaving behind a scattering of ochre and deep blue along the edges of the sky as night descended.  

Lexa had been dragging herself up the street from the bus stop, an exhausting day of work at the metal shop weighing down her shoulders, when she spotted a figure crouched in the middle of the sidewalk, rummaging with  _ something  _ she couldn’t quite make out from where she was standing.

As soon as she’d heard her approach the stranger had bolted, which would be suspicious enough under normal circumstances. 

And the next morning, upon leaving for work, Lexa had noticed that some of her roses had gone missing, the stems summarily cut by an inexperienced hand. It had been easy then, to put two and two together.

_ Who counts their flowers anyway? _

Lexa grimaces around a sip of tea, now lukewarm and bitter for having sat too long inside her mug. Anya’s voice is as clear in her mind as if her boss and best friend was standing next to her, an amused grin curving her lips.

_ I do _ .

She replies mentally, much the same way she did when Anya actually asked the question during work. She’s a little OCD when it comes to her garden - Lexa is ready to admit that much - but considering the money and love she pours into it, she’s got every right to be.

What Anya doesn’t know - nor do the others in her very small circle of friends - is why she picked up gardening in the first place.

Anya is like a sister, but Lexa isn’t ready to discuss that. Not even with her.

A flicker of movement catches her attention, and Lexa distractedly places the empty mug on the corner table before leaning forward, and risking a tumble off the armrest in the process. 

A girl has stopped on the length of sidewalk right in front of her house, and is staring at the flowers intently, hands thrust deep inside the pockets of her jacket. 

_ It might not be her _ .

Lexa thinks the words even as she stands and hurries to her front door. She pulls it open as quietly as she can, just enough to peek outside. 

Yet the person she saw loitering next to her garden that evening wore a beanie too, and she is 99% sure that the hair peeking from under it had been blonde.

Ok - 60%. Maybe.

The girl’s eyes cautiously scan the street - looking for potential witnesses no doubt - and when she feels that nobody is observing her, she steps lightly into the garden. 

Lexa really should save up for a fence, like the one her neighbour put up last Fall.

She waits until the stranger is bending down next to one of the flower beds, fingers stretched towards a gaggle of peonies before she flings the door wide open, hurrying out with an expression she hopes will be sufficiently intimidating.

“Hey! Flower thief!” 

The girl jerks her head up to glance her way and freezes.

Lexa walks briskly towards her - the air nippy enough she regrets not grabbing her jacket - and comes to a stop right in front of the intruder, glaring in disapproval. 

Up close she can tell the hair that the beanie fails to cover is definitely blonde, of a shade with the same rich gold covering the fields around town during summer. The girl’s eyes have grown as wide as they can go, their startling blue on full display, and again Lexa is reminded of sunny days in which every growing thing is in bloom, the air redolent with a million fragrances.

She can’t help but notice how  _ pretty  _ the girl is.

_ God, Woods. Keep it in your pants, will ya? _

As always, when she notices things like these, Lexa is filled with guilt.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

With effort, Lexa steers her mind away from dangerous waters, injecting her voice with sternness as she gets ready to give the thief an earful she won’t soon forget. 

“I...uh…” The girl straightens and adjusts her jacket, eyes studiously avoiding Lexa’s. “Just looking.” 

“Just  _ stealing _ , you mean. Like you did with the roses the other week and who knows how many more flowers before I finally noticed!” Her voice is a tad too loud, a bit too strident by the time she’s done, and Lexa mentally swears. She meant to intimidate professionally, not sound like the crazy cat guy that lives at the end of the street and yells at kids whenever a baseball from the nearby park ends inside his yard.

The girl’s shoulders give a jerk that’s somewhere halfway between a wince and a shrug. 

“You know that correlation doesn’t imply causation, right?” 

_ A smartass thief. Just great. _

Lexa had expected the stranger to look chastised once caught and that, after promising to not do it again she’d run away, leaving her and her flowers alone. 

Instead the girl doesn’t seem to be too affected by her accusations - or by her scowl for that matter - and, after an initial moment of surprise, she’s standing her ground. The only sign she may be a bit ashamed by her actions is the blush coloring her cheeks. 

Then again, it may just be the touch of the wind blowing through the garden. 

“But you were stealing, weren’t you.” It may be phrased as a question, but Lexa puts all of her certainty behind the words. 

The blonde opens her mouth, looking for a moment like she has a mind to argue, then she shrugs again and concedes. 

“I was.”

Lexa doesn’t bother hiding the satisfied smirk that tugs at her lips. 

*******************

The fight seems to have drained from the woman that stormed out of the house to confront her. 

Clarke’s relief is tinged with regret.

_ It was kinda hot, actually. _

The girl is in her early twenties, just like her, even though Clarke can’t tell whether she’s a handful of years older or younger. Her green eyes have lost some of their thunderous light now that she’s admitted to the theft, the brunette’s stormy expression replaced with one of a satisfaction so complete it borders smugness. 

Clarke is positive the garden’s owner isn’t aware of how scary she appeared only moments before, eyes dark, swirling pools and shoulders squared, as a commander on the verge of ordering a war would look like. 

Now she is just the kind of girl Clarke usually makes out with when she and Raven roam the local clubs on weekends. 

“What I want to know is why?” 

_ Wow. Persistent aren’t you. _

Clarke had imagined that she’d get yelled at, threatened with the typical “I’m calling the police” tirade and then be on her merry way. But the woman looks like she won’t be satisfied unless she gives a reasonable answer, and she’ll be damned if she tells something so personal to a stranger. 

Even if said stranger is the one she stole several bouquets worth of flowers from. 

“They’re pretty.”

_ Lame, Griffin. Lame. _

In her defence, the girl is fucking drop-dead gorgeous, and she can’t think straight.

_ Eh.Eh. _

“And you couldn’t do the reasonable thing and buy your own flowers?” The glare makes a comeback, and Clarke moves her gaze to a spot over the girl’s head, shuffling her feet. 

The reasonable thing would have been to stop after the night she was almost caught, because any kind of luck eventually runs out. Clarke Griffin knows she’s many things, but reasonable isn’t really one of them.

“I’m broke.” Honest to God, this part is true, and she doesn’t mind sharing it. The brunette huffs and rolls her eyes, clearly expecting something more in the way of an apology.

“Again, they’re very pretty. “  _ Like you _ , Clarke almost says and bites her tongue to keep the words in. 

That’s true too, but she is sure the girl will mistake a genuine compliment for a way to weasel out of the situation. “And like, there are so many, and they keep growing back and I honestly thought you wouldn’t notice a few were gone, which you did, and I’m sorry and an idiot, and clearly I didn’t think this through.” 

She heaves a shuddering breath and waits. It’s always been a struggle for her to look innocent, but she gives it her best shot. 

It works - for one or two seconds. 

“Clearly.” The brunette mutters, expression mollifying before her jaw flexes again. 

“Clearly I’m an idiot, or clearly I didn’t think this through?” Clarke’s cheeky grin isn’t reciprocated and withers away.

“Both.”

_ Well, you walked into that one. _

She’s about to apologize again - anything to end what’s beginning to resemble the sort of embarrassing story that seems way more amusing when one is drunk - when the girl starts to move around the garden, picking flowers and arranging them without a word. 

Clarke follows her progress, brow scrunched up in confusion.

“Uh. What are you doing?” 

The brunette pauses to answer her. “Giving you what you want. On one condition.”

“You never want to see me in your yard again?” Clarke asks, unsuccessful in containing a note of hope. The girl is hot, but also scarily intense and she feels like she should put  her “dating material ” assessment under review. 

“I’m coming with you so I can meet the girl you’re stealing my flowers for.” 

Clarke sputters. 

“Wait what?!” 

“You gave me the saddest excuse ever. It’s obvious you were lying, and why would someone steal flowers, if not to give them to someone else?” A note of triumph has entered the brunette’s voice. Obviously she thinks she’s spot on.

_ Oh, how wrong you are, Sherlock. _

“Ok.” Clarke figures that denying will only prompt another argument, “but why on earth would it be a girl? For all you know, the flowers could be for my mom.”

With a snort, the girl thrusts the fresh bouquet into her arms .

“With the way you dress? Please.” She looks Clarke over, seemingly considering something. “It could be a guy,” she amends, after enough time has passed that Clarke starts to wonder if her coat is stained or something, “but anyway, it’s a significant other and I demand to meet them.” 

“And will you shame me for my deeds in front of them?” 

Clarke pitches her voice a bit higher, trying to imitate the brunette’s, and waves the flowers around dramatically, free hand pressed to her chest. “Oh there’s something terrible I need to tell you about Clarke. She’s  _ such  _ a criminal.” 

The girl’s lips quiver on the edge of a smile.

“I’ll let you sweat on that a bit.” She pins Clarke to the spot with a hard stare and whirls away, walking back towards the house, arms hugging her sides as she shivers. 

To get her coat and stuff, presumably.

On the last doorstep she halts, and this time she  _ is  _ flashing Clarke a toothy grin.There’s more than a bit of mockery mixed in, but the way her eyes sparkle when she smiles, green like the waters of the lake Clarke grew up near,  totally makes up for it. 

Clarke forgets to breathe and almost drops the flowers.

“By the way, whatever your day job is, don’t quit it. You’re a terrible comedian.”


	2. Like A Walk In The Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa finds out who Clarke was stealing the flowers for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the end is not...well, you know, the end.
> 
> \- Dren

It dawns on Clarke that she could probably make a run for it.

Frowning, she nervously changes her hold on the flowers, and clicks her tongue in frustration when some of the longer stems shift around in her palm, throwing the careful composition into disarray.

Guilt is what holds her back.

_ Wow. Having a conscience really sucks. _

She has no problem confessing that, if the brunette hadn’t caught her red-handed, she would have kept up with her amateur thieving. What Clarke is less ready to admit to (even if all of these things she’s telling only to herself) is that there’s a part of her which has been hoping to get caught for some time.

The night that the other girl had almost chanced on her was the closest they had ever been that far, but Clarke had caught glimpses of her before. Plenty of times she’d biked past the house – on days in which she’d had no intention of stealing anything – and gotten a glimpse of the brunette hard at work amid bags of seeds and fresh soil.

Those fragments had been like pieces of a puzzle Clarke had struggled to put together until the girl had rushed across her yard to yell at her, tantalizing impressions that had left her with just enough material to build a mental image of the mysterious garden owner.

She hadn’t been too wrong, but not entirely right either and finally having a complete picture has filled her with relief.

The emotion is accompanied with more than a little regret. Clarke finds herself unforeseeably intrigued by the brunette, but her actions have ruined her chances at – well,  _ anything _ – even before she had time to realize she may find herself daydreaming about a woman she can’t have, while holding a handful of stolen flowers.

The brunette reappears, a trench coat on her shoulders and a red scarf wound loosely around her neck - wide enough it looks more like a shawl really - and Clarke runs out of time to worry about  _ what ifs _ and  _ maybes _ .

“Shall we?” 

She doesn’t wait for Clarke’s answer, simply walking past her with a clear expectation she will follow. Which is kind of irritating and presumptuous all considering, as is the way the brunette is holding her head tilted, chin slightly raised, but Clarke decides to let her get away with it. 

After all, her face is gonna be priceless, when she figures out what Clarke’s destination is. 

_ Too bad the joke’s on me in the end. _

They walk in silence for a while, the day nice and filled with sunlight despite the chill the wind still carries as it blows the odd piece of garbage across the road. The more they walk, the more Clarke’s feet drag, so that she ends up about a step behind the brunette. She only breaks the silence to offer directions when they need to turn whichever way, and it doesn’t take them long to get to the middle of town.

It’s not that big anyway. 

If only she had gotten plastic flowers in the beginning, all of this could have been avoided. She had debated that at first, actually having gone as far as to enquire about them at the florist, but they looked sad. And fake.

They spell  _ avoidance _ . Clarke’s seen it with her own eyes, how people pick them as a low maintenance alternative, which ends up being an excuse to not go…  _ there _ .

_ Fuck Griffin, you can’t even think of the word in your mind, how are you gonna explain it to her? _

She won’t. 

She’ll just let the brunette figure it out on her own, and watch the smugness drain away from her face. Except that doesn’t bring her the satisfaction it ought to. 

Those vibrant green eyes will fill with pity, and Clarke isn’t sure she can handle that without breaking down. Even now the girl is casting curious glances her way, wondering why she’s lagging behind so much in all likelihood, and the smidge of worry she can detect there is making Clarke inwardly cringe. 

“Not so flippant now are we, Clarke? Wait,” The brunette frowns. “It  _ was _ Clarke, wasn’t it?” 

The remark lacks bite, and Clarke finds herself entirely too caught up in the way her name sounds on those lips. 

Lips that look soft, and perfect for kissing now that she’s close enough to tell.

_ Will. _

_ You. _

_ Stop. _

_ It. _

“And you are? I can’t keep thinking of you as flower-owner.”

Thankfully her voice doesn’t shake.

“Why not?” 

“Would you prefer insufferable smartass?” 

The brunette stops dead in her tracks, rolling her eyes.

“Lexa. My name is Lexa.” 

Her lips are pressed in a thin line, and her brows knit as a cloud shrouds the forest-green of her eyes, reminding Clarke of the haunted woods so often featured in fairy tales. 

It should be illegal to look so pretty while annoyed, Clarke decides. Or to have such an endearing name - one that she finds herself repeating in her mind.

They resume walking, leaving the town’s main street behind, with all its little restaurants and coffee shops. It won’t take long for them to get over the hill already looming ahead, and subsequently reach their destination. A strange sort of sadness settles over Clarke, accompanied by the consolation that this charade will soon be over.

Lexa frowns, turning her head to observe their surroundings, clearly confused. 

“This is… a strange place for a date.” 

The street they are walking along is part of a residential area, but the houses are few and far between, copses of trees casting stark shadows across the sidewalk. The road slopes upwards gently, before it disappears, to wind around the side of the hill on its way to the top.  

“Oh yeah, haven’t I mentioned? This was a ploy to get you to follow me. I’m a serial killer.” 

The joke feels heavier than it should.

“Very funny.” Lexa gives a long suffering huff, kicking a pebble they find across their path. “Why don’t you just tell me where we’re going? I hope this isn’t your way of getting back at me for something that is entirely your fault though.” Her mouth turns down menacingly. “I can still decide to punch you.” 

“You wanted to punch me?” 

Somehow the notion never crossed Clarke’s mind. Not because she doesn’t think that Lexa would be capable, but she doesn’t look like the kind who resorts to violence unless it’s the cold and calculated kind. 

She’s reminded of the first real look she got of the brunette, a whirlwind of controlled fury as she strode towards her like a general on the warpath, and suddenly she’s sure she’d never want to find on the receiving end of one of her punches. 

“We’re here anyway.” 

With her eyes fixed on her as they walk, Lexa has obviously failed to realize they’ve crested the hill. The road goes on, asphalt worn down and cracked by the snow that abundantly fell back in January, and eventually levels out as it leads towards the highway and the next town over. 

Their destination is on Clarke’s left, and as Lexa’s gaze follows her own, her eyes widen, surprise watering the green down until it looks almost bluish in the sunlight. 

“Oh.”

The cemetery is old. So old that the wall bordering the rows of tombs, the crosses and angels bleached to bone-white by the elements, has caved in places and been uprooted in others. Clarke’s mother sits on the town’s Council, and she knows that every year a proposal comes up about replacing the wall in its entirety. Invariably, each year there is something more urgent that needs to be done and, by the time that’s done, money has run out.

Clarke walks up to the open gate, stopping when she notices that Lexa is just staring at her, without following. She’s almost scared to meet her eyes, afraid that she’ll find the familiar pity she’s come to loathe from people. 

_ We’re so sorry about your loss. _

Clarke has heard every version of those words that exists under the sun, but not everyone can understand how it feels to lose a father the way she did. It’s an entirely selfish way of thinking, that leaves a bitter aftertaste in Clarke’s mouth and, no matter how hard she tries she can’t hold it against them.

Nobody should go through what she and her mother had to endure. 

When she finally brings herself to find Lexa’s eyes, Clarke is surprised to find a pain to rival her own, buried deep under the green. 

She’s kept her pretence up long enough, and owes the other girl an explanation.

“It’s my dad. He’s buried here.” Clarke pulls the flowers to her chest, as if they could be armor that she can hide behind. “I know I should have gotten plastic flowers, but it’s hard enough to come every week as it is and if I didn’t have an excuse… I wouldn’t...wouldn’t…” She trails off, the world turning hazy as tears sting her eyes. 

“I’ve seen it happen you know?” She resume when she’s able to talk without sobbing. “People do that, and then they stop coming. And I…” 

Clarke closes her eyes and draws a shuddering breath,

“And you’re afraid you’ll forget him if you stop coming here.” A hand is resting on her forearm and, when Clarke opens her eyes, she finds Lexa standing next to her, complete understanding written on her face.

“Come on.” Lexa says softly, just when Clarke feels like she will start to blush. “Let’s go put the fresh flowers on the tomb.”

They navigate the orderly rows in silence, until Clarke comes to a stop in front of a simple slab of marble, jutting out from the soft earth. Her father’s grave is simple, spartan even, not because her mom lacked money for something fancy, but because it reflects the kind of man he had been. 

Without a word, Lexa goes down on her knees, hands closing around the flowers Clarke had put on the grave the week before to move them out of the way. 

“You know,” she extends a hand and Clarke hands her the fresh bouquet, “you could get seeds and plant them right here. That way he’ll always have flowers.” Clarke looks at her dubiously. 

She can’t even keep a cactus alive.

“I can tell you which ones you can get that are low maintenance.” Lexa seems to read her mind. “But you’ll still have to come and pull out the weeds.” 

“You’d really do that? After everything?” 

_ Shit. She’s way too nice and I’m about to cry again. _

“I haven’t always been gardening. But two years ago my girlfriend passed away.” Lexa’s voice is so quiet that her words almost get lost among the grass, and the swishing of the wind across the hilltop. “At first I didn’t want to get out of the house, or work, or see people. Then I realized that she wouldn’t have wanted me to act that way, so I found a reason to go outside for a little bit everyday.” 

Her laughter is sudden and sharp, like broken glass.

“You should have seen my garden in the beginning. Nothing but weeds and grass so tall you had to wade through it.” 

Lexa’s hands haven’t stopped moving as she talks, and Clarke looks down, to find that the fresh flowers have been arranged neatly. Better than she could ever have done.

“Can I ask what her name was?” She is compelled to keep her voice as low as Lexa’s for some reason and, for a moment, she thinks that the brunette hasn’t heard her.

“Costia.” The smile that dawns on Lexa’s lips is sad, but luminous. A homage to all things that were, and those that could have been and will never come to pass. Clarke feels blessed for it.

“Her name was Costia.”

******************

 

Two weeks pass without flowers disappearing from her garden. 

Lexa knows that - logically - she should be happy about it. Instead, her heart is oddly heavy, and she catches herself lingering at the window more than once, in the hopes her eyes will find Clarke in her garden again. 

She’s even started to run wider laps around town with the intent to cross paths with the blonde, but Clarke seems to have vanished, as if the ground had opened up to swallow her. 

Lexa’s has all but given up when, during a lazy Sunday afternoon she decided to spend on the couch in the company of a good book, there’s knocking at her door.

She runs to the foyer, completely undignified, but when she opens the door, heart leaping as she pictures Clarke with her fist raised to knock again, she finds an envelope.

_ “Sorry for the flowers.”  _ is written out in black sharpie on the outside, and when she opens it, she finds a bundle of photos of her garden - obviously taken by someone that knows their business.

_ So that’s her job.  _

Lexa cradles the pictures, lips twitching in the beginning of a smile.

 

******************

 

Clarke walks to her father’s grave, toting a bucket filled with gardening tools. Her back hurts like hell from all the kneeling and bending over, but she finds an odd satisfaction in tending to the flowers that have started to grow, timid and fragile, over his tomb.

_ Who knew gardening could be so hard? I need to work out more. _

When she gets to the grave, she almost drops the bucket on her feet. There is a fresh bundle of flowers, carefully laid next to the ones she planted, a small card tucked underneath.

Clarke reaches out with trembling fingers, plucking the card from  the ground and shaking some dirt off it.

_ Wondering if you’d come over for tea this Sunday - Lexa _

Clarke has to bite into her cheek to stifle a small laugh, warmth the kind of which she hasn’t felt in a long time spreading through her body. 

“I think I might.” 

She knows that Lexa cannot hear her, but she says it anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> [follow me on TUMBLR for more stories and exclusive content](https://kendrene.tumblr.com/)


End file.
